


In Delivery

by starkraving



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23903422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkraving/pseuds/starkraving
Summary: The Battle of the Twilight Gap means something to a certain generation of Guardian. There are rules. There are protocols. Things that you just... don't do. And Masa-22 forgot to tell her baby-Guardian-in-training the rules for carrying a Gjallarhorn in public.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	In Delivery

> “If there is beauty in destruction, why not also in its delivery?” - Feizel Crux

“Goddamn Tex Mechanica shit.”

There’s an Exo stripping her jacket by the gunsmith, meticulously and aggressively unstrapping the bandolier across the flat plating of her chest. She disengages the last pinch-lock and swings the weight of the auto-rifle to the flag stone. She unsnaps the lateral row of snaps down her flank, pulling her jacket open at the collarbone and shrugging it off. Banshee, unperturbed, is examining the pulse rifle she’s slammed onto the counter with, perhaps, a violence intended for the gun’s maker, not the gun itself. The gun itself appears to have exploded at the heatsink, the metal blown out and backward in a blackened bloom of shredded alloy. 

“And you’re sure?” Banshee talking is like an engine warming up. He ejects the mag from the weapon, checks the rounds in the case. “You’d speak to it before the Vanguard?”

“At _fucking_ volume.” The lights in her throat flash hot on the word and she’s pulling her shirt off over her head, tossing it down on the table. Her Ghost, hovering at the back of her head, helpfully transmats a spare from storage, the blue grid-flash of re-materialization knitting the shirt out of seemingly nothing. It drops lightly into her hands. “Thanks, Bit.”

“You sure you don’t want me to fix the other one?”

“No. I want to show those inbred monkey fucks the size of the hole that thing put through my chest.”

“Language,” admonishes the Ghost, but in a way that’s somehow encouraging, not actually admonishing. “It could have been a singular instance, Masa.”

“It’s not,” says Banshee. He pulls the heatsink from the rifle, momentarily straining with the fused metal, then tugs it out. “Two times is bad luck. Three is sabotage, Ghost. Your Warlock makes three equipment fatalities in the last six months. All bad sinks. Where’d you get this weapon, Guardian?”

“I didn’t. My second. He got it from a War Cult vendor.”

“Funny you should say.”

“War Cult is handing out bad equipment?”

“I wouldn’t say them in particular, no, but it’s War Cult Guardians who end up with the bad sinks. No single vendor or source or model, but if you want a pattern, there it is.”

“The three fatalities were Guardians though? So not… _true_ fatalities.”

The Warlock doesn’t bother putting her shirt back on, leaning against the counter. There is a dark starburst in the center of her chest, the naked alloy plating darkened in whorls that spiral out from the nexus, coils up the alloy ligaments of her throat, cupping her sharp jawline in fingers of ash. Her hands are almost black with discoloration. Marks of a long-time Sunsinger. She’s carrying the spots even after a recent rez. 

Banshee shakes his head. “No. One civilian death.”

“How? This is Tower-grade heat-sink mods. Not cleared for non-Guardian usage.”

“From my understanding, it was a Tower mechanic. Asked a Titan at the training range if they could try it, just once, to see how it felt.” There’s a small silence, the low murmur of courtyard activity, Guardians coming and going. A Cryptarch, nearby, complains of his latest engram. Banshee sighs and puts the ruined sink-core down. “That Guardian ain’t been right about it since.”

“Fuck,” enunciates Masa, calmly, with an assassin-like serenity. She grabs the weapon with one hand and her jacket and bandolier with the other. “I’m going to Shaxx. Then, when I’ve gone to Shaxx, I’m going to find the cold-eyed stumpfuck who put these things in our hands and I’m gonna –”

“Keep your shirt on, Masa.”

“Literally,” adds Bit, beaming.

Masa postpones her imminent launch toward Sunsinger-style vengeance long enough to pull her shirt on and tuck it into her trousers, briskly pulling her fieldweave jacket back on, strapping weapons into place. Her Ghost swings a lazy little orbit around her head until Masa notices and shoos the little robot away with a gentle palm shove. Dramatically, the Ghost feigns falling, making small “noooooo” sounds while their Warlock scowls.

“Stop that.”

“You forgot Nico in the hangar bay.”

Masa pauses. “How… long ago did I do that?”

“About half an hour ago.” Bit sounds pleased at Masa’s continued mismanagement of her second. “Want me to message his Ghost?”

“Ugh, yeah.” She finishes straightening her jacket, picks up the bunk weapon. “Tell him to get the big guns out of the Vault for me and to meet me in the courtyard.”

“Oooh,” thrills Bit, “I love the big guns. You haven’t busted out the real big guns in a while.”

“Well, if it’s a Guardian killer we’re looking for, even a cowardly one, I won’t spare the expense.”

Minutes later, Masa is in the Vanguard briefing room at the head of the Tower. Guardian command structure being what it is, the Vanguard have taken to congregating and deploying their own from what amounts to the top story flight command room. Tower dispatchers stand at control panels around the edges of the chamber while the three Vanguard reps clutter up the middle of the room. Ikora examines the weapon, first as any Guardian, inspecting the mechanisms of the gun itself, then as a Warlock, passing a hand over the ruined rifle before tossing it deftly across the table to Cayde-6.

The Exo Hunter flips it, flips it, tests the weight and says, “Getting any heebie-jeebies?”

“Several,” says Ikora, looking at Masa. “Banshee knows the dealer?”

“Banshee says the defect is likely farther up the line. The Mechanica vendor he got them from is a longtime friend. They got a list of sub-vendors to look into. He’s already sent out notice to anyone he’s sold one of those things to come back and trade it in. It’s primarily Crucible gear. Banshee got me a name list. Ghost cross-reffed and sure enough every Guardian that cleared for one of these is tied in the Lakshmi-2.”

Ikora tilts her head. “You’re not part of the Future War Cult though. Unless you’ve recently taken up with City Factions?”

“Not me. My second. He’s been signed on with the FWC for a few months now. It was his weapon that misfired.”

From the head of the table Zavala looks up. “That would be Nico-19?”

“Yes.”

“In the _War Cult_?”

“Improbable, I know.”

“Lakshmi is good drinking company,” says Cayde brightly. “Not, you know, that I drink. Well, that either of us drink, but you get what I mean. She’s personable. I think you have to be just a little personable to head up a faction that literally calls itself a ‘cult’ with a straight face –”

“Can we focus,” says Ikora, “on the possible saboteur killing Guardians over Crucible allegiance?”

“I’m taking this to Shaxx, but I need your authority to pursue this as a representative of the Tower Vanguard.”

“Then I will leave this task to you, Masa. Find the saboteur, bring them in to face judgement. My Ghost will forward the necessary authorization codes. Documentation can be picked up with the post master if you plan to cooperate with City police. Oh. And Masa?” Ikora’s face becomes somewhat shadowed, lined with a thin malice. “Do not cause another incident this time. I need not remind you of last time…”

“That was fifty years ago. Everyone involved is either dead or retired by now.”

“That is very much beside the point, Guardian. Outliving those you’ve offended is not excuse to remain eternally belligerent. Also, civilian Exos do not expire after fifty years so in the name of not offending your own people at the very least, behave. You are a Warlock. Act like one.”

“Yeah,” drawls Cayde, “so turn someone into a toad this time.”

Masa leaves the Vanguard to the background noise of Cayde mock-hiding under the desk while Ikora aggressively levitates a paper-weight in his direction. It is incredible to think about the fact that all three of them are centuries ancient legendary Guardians – heroes and warriors all. There is a loud THWACK as the paperweight makes contact. Zavala sighs. The room trembles slightly.

Shaxx, the Crucible Master, conveniently takes up residence in the foyer section leading into the Vanguard war room so Masa only has some twenty meters to find Shaxx discussing something with his Quartermaster. Shaxx stands at seven feet and change in his armor and rarely removes any portion of his gear while in public which lends to the air of unmitigated terror he likes to exude for the new Guardians. That and the walls full of Vex carcasses and battle trophies go a very long way toward making new forges cry in Crucible.

“Shaxx. Do you have a moment?”

“Ah, Masa. Good to see you in the Tower.” She always forgets this: how good Shaxx is with remembering people and how genuinely nice his voice is when he talks. It might be the accent, region-less and unidentifiable to her but soothing. It’s enough to make her forget he once force-fed a grenade to a trainee to make a point. “Not seen you since the last Banner. Planning on a return this year?”

“Yes, but you won’t like it.”

“Oh?”

“I’m bringing my second through.”

Again, Shaxx is still in full armor peering down at her but she can feel his face contort with distaste. “Oh. Right. _Him_.” Said like ‘that gunk I scraped off my boot last week’ but with more personal loathing. “That idiot of a Titan’s not got himself killed in the field already? I’d assumed…”

“No. Not yet. But he’s giving it a valiant effort. Someone tried to kill him with a junked-up pulse rifle today. This one in fact.” She de-mags the rifle from the sling on her back and passes it to Shaxx who holds it one-handed, dwarfing the weapon in his hand. “It’s part of the reason I’m here. Ikora’s granted me authorization to act for her. It’s serious enough for that.”

“Alright, but how can I help?”

“Someone is targeting FWC Crucible Guardians.”

A scoff as he hands her the weapon back. “Well, then their aim is not very good if they tried to kill your second. He’s a useless Crucible combatant.”

“I’m not saying the saboteur is smart, just that they have a type and they think Nico matches it. He’s in the FWC and most of them are Crucible, uh, enthusiasts.” She’d very nearly said ‘junkies’. “So could just be an accident of association.”

“Well, that’s a Tex Mechanica gun. I can give you some names if you –”

“Masa, we need to go!” Her Ghost interjects itself suddenly between its Guardian and Shaxx, little eye blinking wildly. “Tower plaza. Now. Nico’s in a fight with some Six Front legionaries.”

“What?”

“He was carrying your Gjallorhorn, Masa. His Ghost didn’t mention it to him so he –”

But she is already sprinting toward the entryway, her long jacket flapping with alarm behind her. Shaxx, somewhat gleefully, shouts after her, “Your second causes a lot of trouble for a pacifist-type!”

“Forward me those names!”

Masa yells this somewhat desperately over her shoulder as she launches up the steps toward the courtyard, taking them eight at a time. Her Ghost flits, agitated, slipping in and out of trans-space around her shoulders, chanting “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” which is certainly not helping. She mounts the final stair and comes sprinting out into the flat of the Tower plaza where, sure enough, there are two Titans facing off in the open area between the Post Master’s kiosk and the vault-access terminals. One – fully armored, fitted in Iron Lord metal – has his fist curled into the drive-suit collar of a bare-faced Exo Titan who, by sheer body weight alone, stands mostly unmoved while his aggressor yanks him closer. This would be Nico, her second. A semi-circle of similarly armored Guardians has gathered to look on.

The only reason brawling has not commenced with vigor, Masa suspects, is because Nico-19 is so goddamn slow to fight.

“Hey!” She comes barreling across the plaza. “HEY!”

She collides with both Titans at such speed she very nearly sandwiches her smaller body between them, jamming her arm in the gap between their armored chests. She whips her elbow straight up into the legionnaire’s throat, jamming the flat of her palm down into Nico’s chest and drives a hydraulic wedge between the combatants. The legionnaire, for a moment, just stares down at her so she promptly plants her free hand against the top of Nico’s head and uses it as a fulcrum to launch up and smash her forehead into the Titan’s face-shield.

This has no chance whatsoever of hurting a fully suited Titan, but having an Exo Warlock launch their face into yours is weird enough to startle anyone. He immediately releases his hold on Nico and Masa promptly shoves him backwards. By the sputter and flare of his Light – Titan loud and personally affronted by the attack – he remains unhurt. No anger in him, even now. (Worrisome, that. His lack of brutality even when assaulted.) Less subtle are the sub-frequencies of his EM field, fritzed with Exo-specific combat noise, hyper systems queuing up for killing.

“Masa, they tried to take your rocket launcher. I didn’t –”

“Shut up. You’re fine. He didn’t even _start_ to rough you up.”

“I think he _started_ …”

“Hush.”

The other legionnaire Titans glance amongst themselves for a moment, the crackle-snap of mood noise like a chatter of cicadas rising angry from each of them, a specific harmonic, unique as a finger print. She thinks she knows a few of them based on that alone. The legionnaire she just headbutted recovers from his momentary shock. His dignity, she thinks, is somewhat damaged but nothing else. Now, he redirects to her and steps forward, a defender by the feel of him, like a mountain in motion. Masa immediately squares off to him, staring half a foot up to meet his eyes.

His voice, when he speaks, is flat and organic. No Exo tonalities to it. “You know this Guardian, Warlock?”

“Yes. He’s my second and that’s my Gjallorhorn.”

He stops then, immediately. “Yours?”

“Yes, mine.” Her Light crackles effervescent, invisible, a spark from true ignition around her dense alloy frame. “I am Masa-22, disciple of the Praxic Warlocks. I carry the Albatross sigil, the last of the line under Ari Venn who fell at the Gap.” She points to Nico. “The weapon he carries, it was rightfully commissioned. Do you assault every Guardian who carries one?”

The Titan stands a moment, then reaches up and unseals his helmet at the jaw. She waits while he pulls it off. The Titan is an Awoken man, skin the color of washed lavender, eyes bright as her own. The skin stain across his forehead – she knows the shape. Masa briefly checks the Titan’s Mark. Six Fronts. Order of the West. A glance at the marks on his guard brace. A lieutenant of his cadre. She’d hazard from the distilled chill in his Void-Light reserve that he’s old as she.

“You fought under Ari Venn?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re well met.” He says this with some reservation because she just ‘met’ him with her face at high velocity. “My name is Venet Sol. Are you certain you’re not a Titan?”

“I briefly considered the possibility but all the armor gets in the way. _Why_ are we almost punching my second?”

“One of my Titans asked him what order he fought with at the Gap and he said ‘none’.”

“Right, so we moved immediately to the punching without the intermediary step of confirming theft?”

“Apologies.” He seems legitimately embarrassed now. “Tensions are… high. A fireteam of new forges stripped equipment from a battlefield near Mare Iberium. They were carrying Gallarjorns taken from the true dead. I thought he may be one of them.”

“Look, Sol, I’m all for punching the stupid, really, I am, but let’s make sure they deserve it first?”

She can feel the quirk of a grin, a thumbprint of Light in her senses. “We will indeed, Masa-22.”

The legionnaire inclines his head once more to her and sets off across the plaza, the other Titans following in his sizable wake, the accumulated mass of them like a gravity well taking a stroll. Masa supposes they’re a commando cadre. Even out of battle, there’s a resonance in their Light, a harmonic. Their Ghosts are likely de-rezzed and chatting amiably, sandwiched between one dimension and the next. She jerks her head around to glare at Nico.

“You are very lucky,” she says. “Sol there could have popped your head off if he thought it would teach you a lesson.”

“You know,” says Nico, calmly, “that’s a very odd thing to say when you mean it literally.”

“Where’s my launcher?”

A blip of light emerges from behind Nico’s right shoulder, his tiny partner blinking shyly from behind its Guardian. “I de-matted to orbit. Nico’s ship is still queued for dock in the stratosphere.”

“Well, bring it back down and pay attention. You too.” She points at Nico’s Ghost who flits down behind his shoulder pauldron. It’s a moment, then a thin filament of blue light begins to coalesce in the air before her. Masa holds her hands out, palms up, and the remaining mass of the Gjallorhorn tranmats with a sudden short drop into her grasp. She squints at the two of them, Ghost and new Guardian, similarly wide about the optic. “Ghost, you should know your Tower history.”

“I do,” it says, but meekly.

“Well then you need to speak up when your Guardian gets jumped by Titans over memorial weapon etiquette.”

“Sorry,” says the Ghost, even more quietly.

Nico rather protectively palms his Ghost. “I told Ghost to de-mat. Not its fault.”

“It’s a one-time mistake, but don’t forget. This weapon, if you see one like it, with wolves like this?” Masa turns slightly, angling the rocket launcher into the light so Nico can see the savage detail in the hammered metal, the molecular cleanliness, the casing carefully preserved even after decades of battle. The pitch of Nico’s mood-noise alters, shifts gears to admiration. “They don’t all look the same but if you see this design, it’s a Felix Cruz commission piece. There is no precise log on how many he fashioned. For years he constructed them at the request of Guardians from the Gap and only for them. He builds them from the armor of fallen Guardians, you see.”

Nico looks up sharply.

“When my order died, cut down by dropship fire, they killed the ketch that killed them. Brought it down on top of them to stop it killing everyone else. I dug for days to find any shred of them in that wreckage, any shard of armor, or a weapon, anything that belonged to them. Something I could bury.” She speaks while gazing down at the weapon in her hands. “I did not find much.”

Nico says nothing to that. Masa listens to him – the unconscious pitch of his mind around him, humming low, his thoughts shifting and coloring and recoloring and she knows from now on, forever, he will regard her slightly differently. She attempts to memorize just for now the fading perception of her and how it leaves him – the feel of his thoughts before he knew this part of her history.

“Crux offered to build me the Gjallorhorn on the third day after a recovery team brought me in. There’s nothing but dust when we die, you see. There is no body to bury. What holds us together is so much Light and willpower, Nico, and when we fall it’s like our Ghost never woke us. All the remains is what we carried with us so this… this the best memorial possible.” She smiles, a pulse of low light in her optics. “Something dangerous to carry into battle.”

“A lot of people died at the Gap.”

“The Gap wiped out a generation, Nico. It was the closest we have ever come to the brink.”

“Even greater than Crota?”

“We lost less at the Great Disaster at Mare Imbrium than we did at the Gap. We simply lost them to more… terrible means.”

“You’ve seen a lot, Masa.”

“I have.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Be _angry_ , Nico. You do not possess nearly enough anger. You’re ambivalent. About everything and it will get you killed. Find something to fight for because Guardians who do not fight… the fight will find them. You joined the War Cult so I know you know this existence is one of violence so act like it.”

“I don’t need to be angry to fight for something.”

“We will see.” Masa hefts the memorial weapon in her hands, the Gjallorhorn weighty in her hands. Familiar. The grips are worn with the press of years by her fingers. “A Gap survivor can do what they want with one of these – give it to a successor or loan it to trusted allies, but you shouldn’t carry this weapon into battle unless you know the weight and the lineage. You will need to give it if someone asks you why you carry it.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Masa steps forward and drop the weapon into his hands.

“Okay,” Nico says after a moment. “I’m confused.”

“I just said I can do what I want with it. You’ll need to firepower more than I do.” A shrug. “Besides, if you’re in enough trouble that you need that, I’d better be with you anyhow. You’re too rook to handle anything that needs a Gjallorhorn alone.”

“Thanks.”

“For telling you you’re a pain in my shiny metal ass? Anytime, kid.”

“No, just in general.”

Masa shakes her head. “C’mon. We have a Guardian killer to find. I don’t imagine that will happen if I’m giving history lessons.” She sets off briskly in the direction of the Tower Hanger. “Let’s go!”

Behind her, she feels, not sees, Nico exchange a look with his Ghost. Then he clips the weapon to the heavy mag-lock on his back, and follows her – a faint thrum of pride in the tones of his thoughts. Masa listens to that sound for the rest of what turns out to be a very long day. It does not seem so long in the end though.


End file.
